


starved of sweetness

by NikaWithSpice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Sectumsempra Scene | Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter's Duel in the Bathroom, Draco Malfoy Deserved Better, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, M/M, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Sex, reimagined bathroom scene, sweet tender loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28419726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaWithSpice/pseuds/NikaWithSpice
Summary: The bathroom is dark, not that he needs the light to find Malfoy. The frigid stone echoes with the frightening wail of his sobs. Harry follows the sobs deeper into the bathroom, past the sinks and further in, where the tubs and showers are hidden behind another wall.But Malfoy isn’t soaking in the warm waters.He’s perched stiffly on the lip of the tub, curled over, with his head buried in his hands as his bare shoulders tremble and jerk with the force of his sobs.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 211





	starved of sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> For Killwaii, who dragged me back into Drarry and to whom I will be eternal grateful

The bathroom is dark, dimly lit by a light source that Harry can’t find, not that he needs the light to find Malfoy. The frigid stone of the bathroom’s walls echoes with the frightening wail of his sobs, such a familiar sort of sound that for a moment Harry thinks he must be back with the Dursleys, curled up in the cupboard beneath the stairs, the ferocity of his stifled cries murdered before they can escape his ravaged throat. Harry follows the sobs deeper into the bathroom, past the sinks and further in, where the tubs and showers are hidden behind another wall. These tubs aren’t as opulent as the ones the prefects are given use of but they’re a sight better than anything that Harry was used to; massive enough for a gangly teenager to soak in, to sprawl out and really get comfortable.

But Malfoy isn’t soaking in the warm waters.

He’s perched stiffly on the lip of the tub, curled over, with his head buried in his hands as his bare shoulders tremble and jerk with the force of his sobs. His slender fingers twist and yank at his hair, scrape painfully down his face, the muscles in his back twitching madly from the strain. Malfoy’s shirt lays discarded over the side of the tub, half-drenched and sodden from the water, leaving the tangled and warped map of scars over his pale skin vulnerably visible for Harry to see.

Harry is intruding on an immensely private moment but the ache in his chest–at seeing Malfoy’s pain, such a familiar agony–won’t let him rest, won’t let him leave. His lower lip splits beneath the gnashing of his teeth, a nervous habit that’s never abandoned him and he wonders if perhaps that’s why Malfoy’s lips are always so chapped, from the anxious abuse of his teeth. Words tangle at the back of his throat, a million comforts glued to the roof of his mouth but by the time he untangles the knot of empathy, Malfoy glimpses him in the fogged mirror as he looks up, and then a curse is whizzing his way, leaving him no time to ponder on Malfoy’s melancholia.

Malfoy is quick, more nimble with his wand than he used to be, but Harry is just as fast, if not faster. When Malfoy jumps to his feet and spins to face him, wand extended in trembling fingers, Death Mark on grotesque display, Harry reacts in kind, favored spell falling from his lips.

“Expelliarmus!”

Malfoy dodges, fluidly spinning away from Harry’s spell, dropping to the ground as he flicks a curse in Harry’s direction. “Petrificus totalus!”

Harry slings his arm up, “Protego!” and the curse bounces harmlessly away. Malfoy’s face twists in a grimace, eyes wide and shifting frantically, as if he still isn’t sure where he is, who is in this room with him. Harry reaches out towards him, fingers grazing Malfoy’s forearm, brushing over the Dark Mark. Malfoy recoils sharply, face shuttering almost in agony, regret shining in stark relief against the sickly, sunken pallor of his cheeks.

He’s so _thin_.

“Malfoy,” Harry whispers, fingers hovering over his arm, frightened of letting go. The silver sheen of Malfoy’s eyes glint like starlight in the dim light and Harry is held in captivation by their brilliance until the confusion clouds over them once more.

“Cruci–”

Harry flinches at the first utterance of that particular curse, flinging back one that he isn’t even sure of, just a last-ditch effort to avoid the mind-numbing pain that follows that word. “Sectumsempra!”

Malfoy collapses, a puppet with its string suddenly cut, boneless and limp upon the floor. His chest heaves, a frantic, bubbling gasp escaping his blue-tinged lips and his head lolls toward Harry, silver eyes wide with panic as blood begins to spread over him, gashes ripping through the delicate skin of his chest. The crimson liquid pools beneath him as he gurgles on blood pumping up through the channel of his throat, his hand reaching out for Harry.

Harry surges forward, dropping to his knees at Malfoy’s side as he tears his robe off, throwing it over him in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood but it doesn’t slow, it just flows out as if drawn by Harry’s wand, which now lays forgotten across the bathroom floor. Malfoy flails wildly, choking on blood, but his hands find Harry’s and hold on tightly.

“Potter,” he groans, nails biting into Harry’s skin. “Don’t want to die–”

“You won’t, I won’t let you die, it’s okay–”

Footsteps pound the tile behind him and then he’s being forcefully shoved away, head smashing hard against the tile but Malfoy refuses to release his hand, refuses to let go. Snape snarls but doesn’t falter, wand straightening as he intones, “Vulnera Sanentur!”

The blood–Malfoy’s blood, his life’s blood–retracts, slowly flows inward, returning to Malfoy’s stuttering chest, creeping back into those gaping wounds and sinking down, returning to his veins as the gashes knit closed, leaving only inflamed lines behind. And still, even as Malfoy relaxes, the tight lines of pain easing from his face, he doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. So Harry squeezes back, tangles their fingers together, even as Snape glares down at him.

“Release him now.”

“I cannot, he doesn’t want to let go,” Harry stammers and Malfoy’s fingers twitch against his own, as if in agreement.

“You nearly killed him!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry yells, voice cracking mid shout. “I didn’t know, Professor! I didn’t know what it would do!”

“And yet, you still used a spell you knew nothing about. If I had been a moment slower, he would have died here.”

Harry bows his head, bereft of words. He has no defense. It’s true. He nearly killed Malfoy but Malfoy was going to kill him, lost in the throes of some unknown agony. And yet, Malfoy still doesn’t let go.

Malfoy gasps, surging upright as he heaves for air, crashing into Harry’s chest as he rises. His eyes are wild as they dart around and then settle on Harry and finally, there is recognition lighting up those silver orbs. With one hand–the other now clutched tight to Malfoy’s frantically beating heart–Harry manages to drag his robe around Malfoy’s violently shivering shoulders. He seems desperate for breath, hyperventilating in his venture to fill his lungs.

“Malfoy, Malfoy, breathe,” he orders and sweeps the soaked strands of Malfoy’s blonde hair away from his eyes. “You have to calm down.”

Snape glowers as he squats beside them, checking over Malfoy to make sure he’s healed him completely. Malfoy calms slowly, slumping against Harry as his breathing evens, as he relaxes into Harry’s awkward embrace. Harry catches a whiff of bergamot, of the wild ozone seconds before a lighting strike, rising from Malfoy’s skin and it helps soothe his own wildly beating heart.

“Was my fault, Professor,” Malfoy’s words are stilted, agonizingly lethargic. “I shot the first spell. I was–wasn’t expecting–it was my fault.”

Snape’s mouth tightens. “Well, then. If you’re feeling well, I suppose I shall leave you two to it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Fifty points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin houses, for your blatant disregard of rules and safety. Clean up this mess and then straight to your common rooms.”

They stare after him as he sweeps from the flooded bathroom, splashing through the water gushing from a shattered sink. Shards of glass and porcelain litter the tiled floor, crunching beneath his shoes. When he leaves, there is only the sound of rushing water. Malfoy stares up at Harry as if seeing him for the first time and Harry? Harry can’t help but feel as if he’s seeing Malfoy in a new light as well, a light that glimmers upon his pale skin, illuminating a faint shimmer of freckles that Harry has never noticed before. His fingers move without his permission, following the trail of stardust along his sharp cheekbones.

Malfoy sucks in a deep breath and strangles on it, goes into a coughing fit that rattles his lungs so Harry lays his palm along his back and just... leaves it there, a calming weight. Malfoy leans into him, eyes closing as he tucks his head against Harry’s neck, inhaling deeply. His breath skims over Harry’s skin as he exhales, warm air that makes Harry shiver. The adrenaline from their fight sizzles through Harry’s veins, leaves him feeling high strung and restless with no way to release the energy.

“Potter,” he groans, lips moving over Harry’s neck.

Goosebumps erupt as his breath continues to gust over his heated skin. “Malfoy,” he whispers, conflicted. Malfoy feels right in his arms. Like he belongs there. But right now he’s cold and shivering, seeking warmth from Harry’s body. “Let’s get you up, you’re going to get sick. Come on, Malfoy.”

“Don’t–don’t leave me,” Malfoy pants, still frightened. He buries his free hand into Harry’s shirt, still holding his other hand to his chest. “I don’t want–I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to–” he gasps, and Harry cups the back of his head, yanks him closer and shushes him.

“I’ve got you, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do–”

“My mum, they’re going to kill my mum–Potter, I don’t–Harry, I don’t want to kill anyone, I don’t want to kill him, I want to _die_ , why didn’t you let me die–”

Harry’s eyes widen in shock at his choked whimpers, and he turns to drag him in tight, arms tight around him as he simply holds him close. “No, Draco, no. You don’t want that, you don’t–”

“You don’t know what they do, what they make me do, what they’re going to make me do–”

“You don’t have to do it, Draco, I can help you–”

“No one can help me, not if I’m going to save my mum! She’s all I have!”

And Harry can’t argue with that, not really. What wouldn’t he do to save his own mum? To bring her back to him? To hold her as closely as he’s holding Malfoy right now? There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. Harry’s never considered Malfoy as anything other than a sniveling coward but now… now, Harry doesn’t think he’s met anyone braver.

“I know someone who can help but we have to get you dry and warm, all right? Let’s go.”

Harry tugs him up as he rises to his feet, keeps him upright with an arm tucked around his waist. Malfoy still refuses to release his hand but together they limp their way to the doorway of the bathroom. With a few incantations, Harry puts the bathroom back to sorts, every shard of glass and porcelain returned to their proper place, all the water sucked back into the pipes but Malfoy doesn’t even notice, drained from their ordeal, content to slump into Harry’s side as he guides him out into the hallway.

Together, they stumble their way down the shifting staircases to the one place that Harry knows they will be safe. A room he’s only heard of in passing but a room that he has desperate need of. And just like that, it appears. A doorway forms where a heartbeat before only brick had been and Harry leads Malfoy in with no hesitation.

A cozy room awaits them; soft sofas arranged around a cheery fire, a table laden with steaming food, a basin of warm water, a stack of clean clothes. It’s smaller than Harry would have assumed but it’s perfect in every way.

A pained groan spills from Malfoy’s lips as the heat from the fire seeps into his chilled body and Harry grabs a towel from the table before he settles Malfoy down on the floor in front of the fire’s cheery warmth. He forces himself to look over Malfoy’s shoulder as he strips him of his sodden pants, Harry’s blood-drenched robe following them swiftly to the ground and then Malfoy is laid bare before him. Harry keeps his eyes firmly away, not daring for even a second to follow the pale stretch of skin–lower, to the jut of his thighs. Malfoy catches his chin with trembling fingers, gently drags Harry's face back to him, to his mesmerizing silver eyes. A violent shiver wracks his frame and Harry reaches for the basin of water and a washcloth.

"Here, just–let me," Harry murmurs, still staring into Malfoy's eyes. He dips the cloth into the water, lets it absorb the moisture until it drips with it. Harry presses it to a smear of blood over Malfoy's chest, red-hued water dribbling down the valley of his abdomen.

Malfoy covers Harry's hand, cool fingers shaking as he guides Harry's hand over his chest. His heart hammers beneath their hands, a hummingbird fluttering wildly as Harry cleans the blood from his skin. Their fingers twine together as Harry submerges the cloth, wrings the blood from the fabric and soaks it again. He touches it to Draco's skin, again and again, and again–gently working the blood free of his body, until his alabaster skin glistens with water, glimmers in the light of the fire like a beacon for Harry’s eyes.

"I'm so cold, Harry." Malfoy sways, his head lolling forward to rest in the hollow of Harry's throat. Harry grimaces at the frigid temperature of Malfoy's body and hooks his arm around Malfoy's shoulder, holding him close as he searches for the towel so that he can rub it gently over Malfoy's body. A breathy sigh escapes those soft lips, wisping over Harry's throat and Harry's fist clenches in the damp fabric of his jeans even as his prick stirs with the first hint of arousal.

"Malfoy, here," Harry shoves a robe into his lap, cheeks aflame as his eyes drop down where the robe covers Malfoy's thickening erection. “You look cold,” he blurts out.

One of those elegant eyebrows arches pointedly, and then his chin dips as if to direct Harry’s attention to the proof that he is warming up, and rapidly. There is a pale blush tingeing his sharp cheekbones and though he still shakes–whether with nerves or the lingering chill, Harry doesn’t know–but he raises his gaze, confidently staring at Harry. Daring Harry to make the first move. To cross the gaping chasm that divides them–their Houses, their families, their turbulent past.

Harry extends his hand, cupping Malfoy’s flushed cheek in his warm palm, feels the muscle tense and jump beneath his hand. His throat bobs with the harsh jerk of his swallow and Harry trails his fingers down to follow the motion, just a featherlight caress along his skin, and Draco’s eyes dilate as he swallows again. He drags his fingers back up Draco’s throat, over his chin, traces them lazily over Draco’s lips. They’re soft, the skin newly healed from the spell Snape had cast. Draco whimpers at the-so-very gentle touch and Harry takes the opportunity to dip his finger just inside Draco’s mouth, pressing down on Draco’s tongue as he leans in close enough for his breath to ghost over Draco’s lips.

Draco’s eyes widen and he gasps, the knobs of his spine curving as his back bows, driving him closer to Harry’s bare chest. His hands latch onto Harry’s thighs, bracing himself as Harry removes his finger, dripping spit down the slope of Draco’s chin. Draco’s lips part wider, breath huffing ragged from his throat in a gust of sweet air that tempts Harry closer still. Harry cradles the back of his head, fingers rubbing through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and Draco relaxes into his hand, head tilting backward so that their eyes meet once more–Draco’s heavy lidded and glazed, Harry’s wide with wonder.

When Harry whispers, “you’re so bloody beautiful,” his lips brush Draco’s and Draco’s long lashes flutter closed, as if he cannot bear to meet Harry’s eyes while he’s spouting such words. The light dusting of pink over his cheekbones flushes darker, a vivid crimson, and Harry curses under his breath before pressing their lips firmly together.

He’s rewarded with a sweet sigh of pleasure, with the gentle heat of Draco’s hands splaying over his ribs, with the press of warmth over his thighs as Draco straddles his lap, rising up on his knees, the robe falling away to land forgotten on the floor. Draco shudders beautifully, the longer strands of his pale hair brushing Harry’s hand as he follows the tilt of Harry’s head to deepen their kiss. Harry urges another gasp from him when his other hand glides down Draco’s scarred back, spreading wide over his lower back to guide him closer, forcing his knees to slide out from under him, dropping him fully in Harry’s lap. Close enough that their pricks rub together, trapped between their bellies, and Harry groans at the friction, at the sharp scent of bergamot and mint that clouds his mind.

“Harry,” Draco moans into his mouth, fingers digging into Harry’s sides frantically, clumsily, desperately. The metallic tang of blood tints the flavor of their kiss, and Draco drowns in it, sinks beneath the weight of Harry’s desire. Draco’s heart is a hummingbird, flittering madly, but Harry’s is a thunderstorm, reverberating heavily through his chest. Draco chases that heavy rhythm, splays his fingers wide over Harry’s heartbeat and savors the sound, the proof that they’re both surprisingly, blessedly alive. “Harry,” Draco whimpers and Harry devours the syllables of his own name, teeth nibbling at Draco’s lower lip.

Harry grunts as he uses his hold on Draco to shove him harder against himself, pulling him closer while Harry thrusts up. It’s hard, with his legs crossed beneath Draco’s arse but he manages a halting, frantic pace and Draco, desperate to feel more of his warmth, wraps his arms around Harry’s back, their chests crashing together. Draco drags himself away from the kiss, resting his cheek on Harry’s as he gasps for air but Harry is never one to squander an opportunity; his lips travel the line of Draco’s jaw, the curve of his cheek, the graceful sweep of his neck even as his adventurous fingers dip down, between the cleft of his cheeks to swipe over the rim of his twitching hole, rubbing gently over the furled surface.

Draco jerks in shock, rasping into Harry’s ear as his legs tense around Harry’s waist. His damp hair shields his stunned eyes from Harry’s gaze but the palm on the back of his neck is a grounding weight. The only person who’s ever touched him there has been himself! And even then, he’d been terrified of anyone, especially his family, discovering just how much he enjoyed it, or of noticing just how his eyes tend to linger on other boys. So being this close to the hidden object of his desires, having Harry’s fingers dance over his most intimate of places, is akin to a dream come true, and Draco’s mind doesn’t quite know how to process this scene, other than to hold on tightly as his hips rock into Harry’s touch.

“Harry, Harry–” A plea clings to the tip of his tongue, not yet willing to release the last bit of his barriers but neither can he find the witticisms that usually flow so freely from his sharp tongue. Instead, his teeth find the warm flesh of Harry’s neck and he bites down, blocking the flood of words that threaten to escape.

“Draco,” Harry moans as his head tilts, baring his neck for Draco’s teeth, clearing a path for the winding rows of blooming roses that Draco plants upon his skin, dark bruises growing in a beautiful garden.

It’s a horribly trusting motion, one that brings tears wobbling on Draco’s long lashes, and it’s so drastically different from their typical interactions that Draco decides to focus solely on how absolutely wonderful that Harry is making him feel. And Draco is well-practiced at devoting his attention to Harry, albeit usually in a more violent manner. This… this is so sickly sweet that it tastes tacky in his mouth, like he’s gorged himself on an entire box of those chocolates his mother sends him, but he wants more. No one ever… no one ever touches Draco, not without causing him a world of pain, so for Harry to hold him so tenderly in his hands, to let his fingers dance so clumsily but sweetly over his damaged body… Well. Draco finds himself wanting more and he gives voice to his desire the only way he knows how.

"More, Potter! Give me more!" Draco’s voice cracks on a harsh demand but Harry only rasps a hoarse chuckle.

“Patience, snowdrop."

"Don't you–ah, damn it!–don't you start that ridiculous pet name nonsense with me, Potter," he snarls but the harshness is betrayed by the insistent swivel of his hips, the quickening of his heartbeat, the flush that extends down his neck.

"I'd stop but I think you like it when I'm sweet to you, Draco," Harry says as he drops his hand from Draco’s neck to wrap around both of their lengths.

Draco’s stomach tightens as he hides his face in Harry's dark hair, unknowingly pressing them even closer. He sobs when Harry slides his hand down, fingers nearly painfully tight around them. Harry's cock throbs against his own, warm and hard and weeping pre that helps slicken the glide of Harry's hand, a delicious friction that distracts Draco from their conversation and also the wet fingertip that nudges Draco’s hole until it pushes inside, swiftly sinking into the knuckle.

"Potter," Draco breathes out shakily, clamping down on him even as his hips buck up into the pleasing channel of Harry's fingers. The warm skin of Harry’s back tears beneath the onslaught of Draco’s nails as they dig in, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his back only to mix with the beads of sweat that roll along his skin.

"Mmm. Like it better when you say my name, snowdrop,” Harry’s lips brush against Draco’s shoulder, searing him with the husky rumble of his voice. With a twist of his wrists, he makes Draco writhe and shout, even as he shakes his head. “C’mon, say my name and I’ll give you what you want.”

Draco nips his ear, leaving the indent of his teeth behind. “Shan’t, Potter, damn–no, don’t stop!” He can do nothing but tremble in Harry’s arms, clinging to him.

“Say my name again or I’ll stop right now.”

Draco’s eyes snap open and he pulls away, showing Harry the full view of his plush, pouting mouth, lower lip jutting out as he rests the weight of his body in Harry’s lap, arms draping over Harry’s shoulders. “Don’t stop,” he moans, dropping one arm behind himself, letting his palm spread over the floor to brace himself as he leans back, thighs wide to either side of Harry’s waist with his feet flat to the floor. It forces Harry to move, hands migrating to his waist to keep them from toppling over. He leaves one hand digging into the divot of Draco’s hip, the other cupping Draco’s plump arse. “Noooo, don’t stop! Please! I want you to–I want you, Harry–”

“That was easy, wasn’t it, snowdrop?” the smug words are accompanied by two fingers plunging into his hole, gently stretching his rim wide. Conjured lube glistens on his fingers, drenching himself and Draco. “Too easy.”

Draco stares up at the ceiling, hair sticking to his sweaty, flushed face as his chest heaves in time to Harry’s thrusting digits. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants as he rocks into Harry’s movements. The pleasure is overwhelming but even if it weren't, there’s no way he’d forgo this chance to claim every piece of Harry, to claim him for his own. Harry’s prick is thick and hard as it presses against Draco’s thigh, a delicious tease as Harry slowly rotates and twists his fingers, crooking deep inside him to coax forth another scream as he grazes Draco’s prostate. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”

“Draco,” he croons, adding another finger to scissor Draco wide. The pink skin of his rim reddens from Harry’s careful ministrations and Harry can’t wait to feel those warm, silken walls clenching tight around him, milking him for everything he’s worth, taking everything from him. Honestly, he’s been waiting for that feeling since he had his first wet dream.

...maybe Ron and Hermione were on to something about his obsessive nature concerning Draco.

"Enough, that's enough, it's not enough–"

"You seem a little confused, snowdrop," Harry laughs as he removes his fingers, laughs again at Draco’s betrayed wail and it's accompanying glare. Slowly, Harry massages Draco’s inner thigh with his slick fingers, soothing but also teasing. Keeping him lingering on the edge but comforting the frenetic desire thrumming through his veins. "Is it enough or is it not enough?"

Draco moves, quicker than a striking snake. He surges forward and Harry’s back hits the floor, his head cradled safely in Draco’s hands while his hips cradle Draco’s arse. Instinctively, his hands rise to smooth over Draco’s skin, curling over his shoulder blades to pull him into an earth-shattering kiss, a melding of mouths that has Draco grinding down, panting as Harry's cock slides between his cheeks. He twists a fitful of Harry's messy hair, attempting to deepen their kiss but physically unable to get any closer. There's no space left between their bodies, no gap for air to slip through. Closer than they've ever been and yet… they both need closer.

It is Draco’s hand that slips behind them, that slides down Harry's shaft to circle his girthy length and guides him to Draco’s entrance. He gasps at the sensation of Harry's head nudging his entrance, thick and hot, teasing them both as he holds it there, rubs it over his puckered rim slowly before sinking down just a little and then rising up with quivering thighs. The silver sheen of Draco’s eyes glows with an ethereal radiance in the dim lighting of the fire, flickering monochromatic embers burning in their depths as they sear into Harry's soul. They never stray from Harry's face, from the darkened emerald of his own desirous gaze, not even when he sinks down, inch by deliriously delicious inch, the hard length of Harry's arousal burning into him as Draco takes him into his very core.

Bruises bloom upon the pale canvas of his back as Harry's fingers scrape over his skin, his breath misting over Draco’s face as his mouth hangs wide, caught in a breathless moan. When Harry is finally firmly buried within him, Draco rests his forehead on Harry's collarbone and inhales raggedly, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of him inside his pulsating walls, the pleasurable agony of being too full to truly catch his breath. Draco has no presence of mind remaining to care about his own erection, he's too busy savoring the maddening twitch of Harry's cock as he adjusts to the tight heat surrounding him.

"Wait, wait," Harry moans, though his hips are the guilty party here; they're jerking in half-aborted thrusts, rolling up to shove the air from Draco’s lungs, no matter how hard he tries to catch his breath. Draco's slender fingers rip at Harry's dark locks as he chokes on his moans, not yet ready for more, still trying to reconcile that this is _Harry fucking Potter_ carving his signature into Draco’s insides like… like some delinquent graffitiing an alleyway. Or rather like an artist, painting a masterpiece because Draco feels downright divine with Harry inside him.

"Gimme a moment, just–ah!" Harry cries out when Draco shifts his hips experimentally.

The frantic pounding of his heart beneath Draco’s forehead instills him with a sort of power that Draco never knew he could wield; he's an actual _wizard,_ he can use _magic_ but that can't compare to the strangled yelp that leaves Harry's mouth when Draco scoots his knees to scrape at Harry's sides and somehow manages to drag in even more of his cock. Draco has been dying to be the sole recipient of Harry's attention since he was a child and now he has it, albeit in a way he's only recently begun to dream of, and it's everything Draco’s wanted and more. Drawing on a hidden reserve of willpower, Draco manages to push himself upright with a mangled cry, palms braced on Harry's tense abdomen for leverage and, with Harry's eyes locked on his own, Draco slowly–so very _slowly–_ rises until just the very tip of Harry's cock remains inside him.

Harry slaps his hands onto Draco’s thighs–not taking control, not trying to yank him back down or force him to quicken his pace but rather in an apparent attempt to ground himself. He throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut as his teeth tear at his bottom lip, clearly trying to stop himself from erupting prematurely. Only when his fingers no longer tremble upon Draco’s warm flesh, when his chest no longer shakes wildly, does he let his eyes reopen to gaze up at Draco with some emotion radiating from their depths that Draco doesn't quite understand, as if he's some rare creature, or something to be devoured.

It's only when Harry's lips part on a gasping whisper to reverently proclaim, "you're so damn gorgeous," that Draco even begins to suspect the identity of whatever hides inside Harry's intense stare, something that resonates with the warmth burning in Draco’s chest. "Draco," Harry moans as his hips strain with the effort of not driving up. "Draco, you feel so bloody amazing. Better than anything I've ever imagined–"

Draco cuts him off as he drops down, unable to deal with the sentiments he knows will continue dripping from Harry's tongue. He sets a torturously languid pace, keeping Harry deep inside him as he sways atop him in a sensuous dance that would bring shame crawling over his skin if this were anyone but Harry. Draco grinds his hips forward, trying to drag Harry's cock over the sensitive nerve-endings of his prostate and succeeding, eyelids slipping shut at the electricity zinging upward from the base of Draco’s spine, ricocheting through his back. He leans back, shifting his palms to Harry's quads to support his weight as his head falls back. Another swivel of his hips draws a cracked moan from Harry's throat, and his grip tightens reflexively around Draco’s thighs.

"Wherever did all that blustering, bossy confidence run off to?" Draco teases breathlessly, hypocritical to the maximum as he fights through the arousal clogging his throat just to speak. It's damn near impossible to pull off his typical haughty tone, with Harry rammed halfway up his stomach, but somehow he manages. "You were so full of yourself–ah!"

Draco shudders as Harry finds a better grip on Draco’s waist, holds him in place when he thrusts up. It takes only a few thrusts before Draco devolves into needy whimpers and gasping cries, his cock smacking against the tensing muscles of his abdomen, smearing precum over his pale skin. Harry surprises him by sitting up, catching Draco before he can fall by wrapping an arm around his waist, keeping him close, keeping them together. Draco smooths his palm over Harry's cheek, eyelids cracking open, pale lashes fluttering over crimson cheeks to stare at Harry, who presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"And now _you're_ full of _me_ ," he grins cheekily, enjoying the flush that seems to have settled in for a permanent stay on Draco’s skin.

Draco groans, refusing to laugh when Harry's buried roughly eight inches deep in his arse so he settles for nipping at Harry's chin, tangling his arms behind his neck while they both adjust to the new angle. For several moments, he keeps his head tucked against the hollow of Harry's neck, hiding the emotion written clearly across his face but he can't hide from the fiery trail of damp kisses that Harry blazes over his shoulder, can't hide from the heat of him deep inside. And to be perfectly honest, he doesn't really want to hide from him–just as he doesn't want to hide from himself.

Just when he starts to fall into his own head–to drown in the darkness of his life, the desire flagging under the weight of that burden–Harry urges him to lift his face so that he can claim his mouth in a kiss so fierce it rekindles the burning in his belly. Harry grabs him by the hips, yanks him down and makes him moan at the delicious drag against his insides, and Draco responds in kind, rocking into his shallow thrusts, trembling as his cock is trapped between them. The friction is delicious, intoxicating and Draco gasps into the kiss, teeth snagging on Harry's tongue. Harry's thumbs bruise the divots of his hips, adding links to a chain of dark flowers, one that Draco wants to wear forever.

The heat builds between them, fanned higher by the possessive clutch of those strong hands digging into Draco’s skin, by the desperate curl of Draco’s elegant fingers into Harry's hair. By the sweat slicking both of their bodies. By the ragged breaths shared between their lips.

“Draco,” Harry murmurs, a reverent whisper, as he pulls away just far enough that he can gaze into those pools of moonlight. Breathless, he smiles when Draco chases the warmth of his lips.

“Harry,” Draco groans, frustrated by the unintentional edging Harry is putting him through each time he gets distracted. He slams his hips down as if to emphasize his unspoken point, rolling clumsily into Harry’s hands. “I am so bloody close and–hnng, ah!–I will–” he chokes as Harry shifts them and suddenly Draco is on his back, blinking up at emerald eyes shining beneath a curtain of messy hair and a wide, ravenous smirk. Harry follows him down and then his thighs are being pressed to his chest and Draco screams as he slides ever deeper.

“That’s it,” Harry grunts as he pumps his hips, Draco’s knees draping over his shoulders as he fucks into him. Draco’s entire body seems horribly flushed, skin a deep crimson as he pants and heaves for air beneath him. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you, snowdrop?”

Draco nods, tears dripping from beneath his closed eyelids as he snakes a trembling hand between them, only for Harry to hiss a vicious, “No!”

Draco blinks his eyes open to stare at him in abject shock, mouth slack at the ferocity of Harry’s rejection. Tears glimmer on his cheeks as he wets his lips, unable to form words in the face of that harsh word. He tilts his head, a silent question that he’s terrified to ask. Harry kisses his knee, so close to his face and whispers, “It’s okay, everything’s okay, I just want to see if you can do it without touching yourself, I know you can. I want you to–”

And he relaxes, gives a hesitant nod as he slides his hand back around Harry’s neck, melts into the fervor of Harry’s intense stare and the fury of his thrusts. Every forward drive of his body has his cock impaling Draco’s prostate, has him screaming and sobbing, has him tearing at Harry’s sweat-damp locks as Harry’s teeth nibble and graze along Draco’s knees, his thighs, whatever stretch of pale skin he can reach.

“Come on, you can do it, you’re so close–I’m so close, come on, Draco,” Harry’s voice cracks but Draco is too far gone to notice, unraveling beneath Harry’s body in a glorious melody of cries and wails.

He shakes his head, blonde strands of hair flying about his face as he begs, “Please, Harry, touch me, let me touch myself, I can’t do it without–”

“Yes, you can, you’re so stubborn,” sweat drips from Harry’s brow, beading down to plop onto Draco’s abdomen and he wants to cry, wants to sob because he’s so hard, he’s so close, they both are. “Don’t you want to make me proud, my little snowdrop?”

Draco shudders, biting his lip as he nods frantically, trying to meet the force of Harry’s thrusts. His arms give out, falling near his own head and he clutches at his own hair as he whines, grinding desperately onto Harry’s cock as his own jerks and bobs. He babbles incoherently, all his haughty elegance stripped away and reduced to this needy, whining mess, this beautifully disheveled divinity. All spread out for Harry, like a feast.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises and Draco makes this helpless little whimper, so pleased and yet still needing more. “You’re so good for me, you’re amazing, gorgeous, so perfect–”

“Oh, oh, Harry,” Draco screams as his body stiffens, clamping down around Harry’s cock. The line of his spine arches, bowing away from the stone floor as he comes without a single touch to his prick, thick ropes of white painting his chest and belly as he gasps, eyes wide but unseeing, mouth open in a silent wail.

It’s perhaps the most beautiful and amazing sight Harry’s ever seen.

He’s so tight around Harry, his inner walls fluttering around him as Harry fucks him through the aftershocks of his mind-shattering orgasm, lets his legs fall around Harry’s waist as he scoops Draco’s boneless body into his arms, burying his face into his neck as he holds him close and fucks into him with wild abandon. His hips stutter as the crashing waves of Draco’s bliss brings him over the edge into sweet oblivion, his balls drawing tight as he fills Draco with the heat of his seed.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” he chants, and Draco comes back to awareness just enough to loop his arms around Harry’s back and feather kisses over his sweaty hair, over his forehead, his scar. Harry returns the kisses, the frantic fervor of their passionate lovemaking banking as Harry collapses over Draco, as they hold each other close. Simply listening to the rhythm of their frenetic heartbeats singing out in celebration of their survival.

“Harry,” Draco whispers, eyes already slipping closed in preparation of exhausted sleep. His breath is warm as it shifts the dark strands of Harry’s hair, the rapid beat of his heartbeat calming to a normal rhythm as his arms slacken around Harry.

With a lethargic grunt, Harry rolls, tilting them onto their sides as he spares a belated wish for some blankets and pillows. In just a blink, the items are within arm’s reach and Harry smiles softly as he tugs a blanket over them and squishes a pillow under his head. It takes a little more wiggling but he manages to get Draco tugged into a more comfortable position, with his head pillowed on Harry’s chest, drooling onto his skin. Harry disregards the myriad of sticky fluids cooling between their bodies in favor of slowly carding through his damp locks.

“Mm, Harry,” Draco breathes out, not quite asleep but steadily drifting there. “What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry, snowdrop.”

“Kinda hard not to, with a literal war going on–”

Harry tightens his arm around him, kisses the side of his head as he pulls the blanket up higher. Despite the levity of their talk, Draco’s head is growing heavier as he loses the battle against consciousness. “After this, I feel like we can win anything, if we stand together.”

Harry feels the dreamy quirk of Draco’s lips against his chest, just before he hears, “You’re a bloody moron, you know that? But I feel the same.”

“Good, then we’ll stand at each other’s sides.”

“For as long as we can,” Draco sighs, and then he’s gone, fast asleep, leaving Harry to stare over his head, into the flickering flames of the fire, long into the night, mind busy strategizing plans to save Draco–and his mom–from Voldemart, from the Death Eaters.

When Harry finally falls asleep, it’s with Draco clutched tightly to his chest as he inhales the sharp scent of bergamot and mint. He can think of no better way to spend the night than in the arms of his beautiful lover. Harry only wishes they could spend every night like this, curled up together.


End file.
